The Help You Need
by Not-What-It-Looks-Like
Summary: Alternate Universe - Partway through Sam's first year in college, after getting caught drunk driving, she attends court mandated therapy to avoid jail time. Cutting a deal with the judge, Sam agrees to spend a shorter amount of time in the program if she's willing to be the first patient to a promising young prodigy. - Read & Review! -
1. Chapter 1

Sam tapped her foot impatiently. With her arms crossed she looked around the small room. Everything about it just had this annoyingly cuddly feel to it. Like a child's nursery. The room was muggy, the yellowish-green walls were a complete eyesore, the couch she was on was older than time, and worst of all was the man who sat across from her in an annoyingly large chair with his legs crossed and a clipboard across his knee and a pen in his hand. The only vaguely interesting thing in the room were the photographs on the wall, which were at least somewhat artsy. But Sam's eyes were glued to the clock, which seemed to be ticking backwards. It's little hands like tiny daggers, poking indecently into her with each little tock. So far she'd endured fifteen minutes of silence and it was beginning to drive her absolutely insane. She knew she wouldn't be able to take two hours weekly of this terrible room.

"Are you just going to stare at me?" she asked. Her tone was harsh and out of the blue enough to make the boy across from her, or, sorry, the_ doctor_ jump. That was almost enough to make her smile, but she tried not to. Best not to make anyone think she was a sociopath on top of an alcoholic.

"You said you didn't want to talk," the doctor said.

"I don't."

"Well, then," he shrugged and let his eyes drift around them, letting the silence that filled the room answer her that those were her only two options.

Stubborn, Sam turned her head and chewed the inside of her lip for another three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, before turning and remarking, "I don't need to see a psychologist."

"The judge thought otherwise."

"Well he was wrong."

"That's not my decision," the man said.

Sam turned away again. His endlessly tolerant tone was beginning to drive her absolutely up the wall. She watched the clock. Two more minutes ticked by.

"How old are you, like twelve?"

The doctor smirked ruefully. "I'm nineteen."

"I'm twenty-one," Sam said, sneering some.

"Yes, I know."

She shook her head. Another thirty-six seconds.

She mumbled, "This is so stupid."

"Does it bother you?" the doctor asked.

"Does what bother me?" she asked, even though she had a pretty good idea. She just wanted to get him angry. Anger she could handle. Anger she could probably complain to the judge about. But anger wasn't what she got. Instead the doctor answered in a cool and casual voice, "That I'm younger than you."

"Of course it does."

"Why is that?"

"I don't need my head shrunk by some virgin who still lives at home with his mother," she snapped.

He just nodded and wrote some things down on his notebook. God, how she wanted to kill him.

Another five minutes.

"So why don't you tell me why you're here," the doctor said.

"You already know why."

"No," the boy said, shifting which foot was crossed over which. "I know that you wrapped your car around a pole while driving back to your dorm after a night of partying. I know it's not your first DUI. I know you were ordered to attend court mandated therapy. And I know you cut a deal with the judge to get below the minimal time by allowing yourself to be subject to a psychology student instead of a graduated therapist. I know all that. What I don't know is _why_."

Sam glared. "Isn't it obvious?" she said. He was quiet.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Because I don't feel like spending one hour here twice a week for six months when I could get three instead."

"That's all?"

"Yeah. That's all."

He nodded and wrote something else down. Sam just scoffed.

"Anything else?"

"No. Nothing."

Five more minutes.

Sam wanted to pull her hair out by the roots. If she wasn't insane before, this so-called "therapy" wasn't helping.

"Can you talk to me about-?"

"No. I can't."

The doctor sighed, for the first time seeming slightly annoyed._ Good_, Sam thought.

"Alright. Then why don't you just talk to me?"

"About what?"

"About anything."

"I don't have anything to say to you."

"And why's that?"

"Why do you think?"

"This isn't about what I think."

"Yes it is," Sam said, bitterly, "I did my research. If when this whole setup is over you don't 'approve' me I'm going to be put right back into the program."

He was quiet.

"Yeah," she continued, "I did my research."

He scribbled on the notepad again.

"So, you don't want to talk to me because you're worried you'll say the wrong thing and have to stay here longer?"

"I didn't say that."

He continued, ignoring her comment, "You aren't comfortable that I have more power than you."

"No," she said, "I don't like having to call a boy who I could babysit 'doctor.'"

He stared for a minute. It wasn't a creepy stare. It was just like he was trying to figure her out. And for some reason that actually made her feel weirder.

"You don't have to call me 'doctor,'" he finally answered. "You could try to think of me as a friend."

"Then what am I supposed to call you?" she asked, sarcastically.

He leaned back and smiled. Slowly, he said, "You can call me Charlie."

"Is that your name?"

Again, he just smiled. He stood. "Well, I think we can call it a day."

She stared. "Seriously?" But she didn't wait for a reply. She stood up and began collecting herself, pulling her coat on and grabbing up her purse.

"Seriously," he said, and opened the door for her.

"Not a very productive first session," she mumbled once she was out the door and it was too late for him to change his mind.

"Well," Charlie said, shrugging slightly, "they say if you make one friend on your first day, you're doing okay."

Sam stared at him, not sure if he was messing with her or not.

He smiled a little. "I'll see you in a few days," he said, and closed the door.

* * *

**AN**: So what do you guys think so far? I'm personally really excited. If you didn't piece together the alternate universe on your own yet, basically Sam has never met Charlie, but still managed to get into college, though hasn't quite learned to get out of the bad spiral she'd in. Charlie never met Sam or Patrick. They didn't go to the same schools. But in this he still met Bill Anderson and was able to get help through high school. His teachers in college realized what a special kid he was and he sped through the programs he wanted, and now he's working to be a psychologist.

I'd love reviews to hear people's initial reactions before I go on.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN**: Sorry this took longer than I expected it to update. I've actually got a really clear picture in my head of where I want to take this, but ironically it's been making it a bit hard to focus on writing the_ trail_ to get me to where I'm planning on having it go. I just want so badly to jump to the fun stuff! But I guess we're all just going to have to be patient, right?

Anyway, here's the next chapter. It's a bit longer than my chapters are usually. I was considering breaking it up into two, but I couldn't find a good enough place to have it pause. So here's the whole thing - Enjoy!

* * *

The next visit was slightly smoother. Despite her earlier disapproval about calling the boy "doctor," Sam actually found it much more difficult to refer to him as "Charlie." She kept reverting, and for some reason Charlie didn't seem particularly pleased.

"I'm not a doctor," he'd explain.

"I'm not an alcoholic," she'd answer. He'd proceed to scribble something down in his notebook as Sam would resist the urge to hurl her pocketbook at him.

But even with the strain, that time Charlie had somehow managed to get her going about the policeman who had arrived at the scene when Sam had crashed her car. Only after he assured her it would in no way affect her time or record if she bad mouthed the guy, Sam proceeded to spend the next fifty minutes bitching about the overly strict copper. She even showed him the red marks around her cuffs from where the metal handcuffs had cut into her skin.

"He absolutely wouldn't loosen them!" she sneered at one point, "It was like he thought I was a murderer."

Sam has at first expected Charlie to defend the cop, say he was just doing his job or argue that while drunk she had probably been jerking at the metal and that that was what more than likely gave her the bruising, but he did neither, and instead just nodded his head and let his brow furrow. In the back of her mind Sam told herself that the gesture was most definitely a practiced routine all therapists trained in the mirror, but she couldn't help but feel from the look in his eyes, even over the thick framed glasses, that his concern was genuine. She cursed herself for it, but as she walked to the bus stop home (seeing as her license was revoked until Charlie deemed her no longer a safety hazard) she couldn't help but feel more relaxed. The session had been in it's own way oddly therapeutic.

By their third session, Sam strolled into the overly cozy room and said almost too pleasantly "Hello, doctor."

To which Charlie swiftly replied, "Hello, patient."

Sam gave him a sidelong look as she sat herself down on the couch, figuring out that if she perched on the edge she was less likely to sink so far down into it.

"You're in a good mood," Charlie said as he took his place on the chair across from her.

"Hardly," she told him. His eyebrows went up in surprise at her swiftly swung mood. She raised a brow, daring him to address the issue. He seemed to consider it a moment, then looked down at his pad, clicked his pen, and jotted something down. She sighed, resigned. Although he'd looked away first, that damn pen would beat her every time.

"What are you always writing down?" she asked.

"Just things I want to remember about our sessions," he said.

"I don't want to remember any of our sessions," she said, venomously.

"Guess that's why you don't have a pad," Charlie said. She looked up to see him smiling. It wasn't an aggressive kind. Not the kind you make when you know you've made a good comeback in a fight or after you've thoroughly insulted someone. It was the kind you make when you've lightly teased a friend. And against her best wishes something about seeing that look on Charlie's face was nothing short of adorable. Sam heard herself giggle.

His smirk grew to a grin and he jotted something else down. This time she didn't mind it quite as much.

"How have you been sleeping?" Charlie asked.

Sam wondered why he wanted to know, but just shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

He nodded. "Any vivid dreams?"

"Don't go Freud on me," she replied, testy.

He put a hand up in surrender.

"Why do you ask?"

Charlie shrugged.

"Do alcoholics have vivid dreams?"

"Lots of people have vivid dreams," he replied, dodging the question. Sam's eyes narrowed, but Charlie just smiled again and she wasn't able to keep it up long. _Damn it_, she thought, hating him for making her not hate him as much as she wanted to. And Sam really wanted to.

"Insomnia?" he said, trying a different approach.

"Not really."

"How late do you normally get to bed?"

Sam shrugged. "Eleven-thirty? Midnight? Maybe one."

"When do you wake up?"

"I have a ten o'clock class."

"Do you go to it?" he asked. Sam cursed in her head that he caught that.

"Sometimes."

"What class is it?"

"Psychology 100," she said, and smirked.

"Do you do well in it?"

"It's the easiest class I've ever taken," she retorted, and it really was. All the social science classes were a total breeze. It was basic college knowledge to take Psych 100 and 101, and Sociology 100 and 101, when you basically just had credits to fill. 99% of the coursework was an absolute no-brainer.

Sam wanted Charlie to get mad at her. Wanted to hear him defend his trade, but he didn't. He just nodded and said, "Well, that's good that you can relax a little and take time to recover from your accident."

She deflated a little, upset she couldn't rope the quiet boy into an argument. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Any pains you've had since that, by the way?" he asked.

"Just my wrists."

"Right."

"From the handcuffs."

"Yes, I remember."

"Did you write that down?"

"Yes, I did."

She got quiet. Charlie let her. That was something she was beginning to really dislike. The boy clearly had no issue with silence. Sam didn't like it at all. She always needed something. People talking, the radio, a television, music, anything. White noise. Whenever she did her work or was driving places or even talking with people in public or private. She needed noise.

The silence that filled that cushy little badly lit room with the strange photographs on the wall and the terrible color choices was suffocating. Sam took a deep breath in just to remind herself that she could.

"Yes?" Charlie said, mistaking her inhale as her readying herself to say something.

"What?" she said, knowing what he thought but trying again for confrontation.

"Did you want to say something?"

"No."

"Alright."

_This is going to drive me insane_, Sam thought. She looked up to where the clock hung on the wall, only to notice it wasn't there.

"Hey," she said, a bit too enthusiastically, "Where'd your clock go?"

"Had to be repaired," Charlie answered, but it sounded too rehearsed. Sam's eyes narrowed. The damn perceptive sonofabitch must have noticed the way she'd constantly stare at the thing and took it down. She scanned the room idly for it, but couldn't find anything that seemed out of place where it could be hiding.

She didn't have a watch on. She sighed. "What time is it?" she asked, noticing that Charlie had.

He looked to his wristwatch. "We have plenty of time left," he answered.

"That's not what I asked," Sam retorted.

"I know," said Charlie.

_Oh, I could kill him_, Sam thought, clenching her teeth and turning away. In her head she counted:

_One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand..._

She made it to thirty when Charlie interrupted her train of thought.

"How did you like high school?" he asked her.

She turned and stared at him. _Where did he get that from?_ she wondered, truly baffled by however his jumpy little brain must have worked.

"Why?" she said.

He shrugged.

"It was alright," she said, but it lacked any heart. Sam could tell by the way he looked down at his notes to write something down that he didn't buy it for a second.

"Is that when you started drinking?" he asked.

"When?"

"In high school."

"It's illegal to drink underage," Sam said.

"It's illegal to drive drunk," Charlie replied, looking up from whatever he was writing for a moment to make eye contact with her. Something about the purely honest look he gave her - neither disrespectful nor degrading - sent a chill down her spine. She looked away.

"Yeah," Sam answered, softly, "Yeah, that's when I started drinking."

"Tell me about it," Charlie instructed.

Sam sighed and shook her head. "There's not much to tell."

"Tell me anyway."

She glared up at him, but his expression shattered her icy stare for a moment. It wasn't vindictive. It wasn't like some scientist probing at a lab rat. It wasn't some boy at some party trying to get in her pants. It was just innocent-like curiosity. There was some reason for it behind those eyes of his but she couldn't get to it. And she didn't want to ask.

With another long pause and an overly dramatic sigh Sam said, "It was my freshman year. I used to go to parties and get really drunk and..."

Charlie was quiet when she faded off, and Sam felt a knot growing in her stomach.

"Yes?" he said after a minute, trying to gently nudge her forward.

"Nothing," Sam said. "I used to get drunk at parties and have a really good time. It was fun and I met a lot of people. That's all."

"And do you still like to have fun and meet people at parties?" Charlie asked. His voice didn't hold any inflection of innuendo, but when she turned to look at him her lips parted slightly and she felt utterly exposed. He knew. She knew he knew. And it made her feel dirty and horrible, even though he clearly didn't mean her to. That much she could see in his stare too.

"Yes," she said. "Sometimes. Sometimes not."

"Sometimes you just prefer to wrap your car around a pole and call it a night?"

"That's right." she retorted, defenses going up.

"Alright."

"'Alright' what?"

"That's fine."

"Running my car off the road is 'alright'?"

Charlie just nodded, a little too concerned with writing things down to really answer.

"You're a real shit doctor, you know that?" Sam said.

Charlie looked up and for just a second she thought she saw something in his eye like irritation. But it was gone before she could be sure. After an intense couple seconds of eye contact, he broke out into a tiny smile.

"I'm not a doctor," he reminded her.

* * *

**AN**: There you have it! Haha! Our boy Charlie is starting to get under her skin! Review, everybody, and let me know what you think!


End file.
